Letters
by new born bliss
Summary: 3 years after Sherlock's death have passed, John has just begun to move on when a misfortune strikes. This is my version of how the first episode of Sherlock season 3 would go
1. Chapter 1

**A/N So I had this dream a while back on how i was watching the first episode of season 3 of Sherlock and after i cut out all the weird parts it seemed like a good fic idea. though i can't promise i'll end it properly since i woke up pretty soon. 3 chapters are gonna be there for sure, i don't know about the rest, if this picks up and people will like it i'll probably figure something out and finish it. so far no smut or obvious canon, just fluff**

It all started in a small, smelly looking alley that's not far from the main street. As the sun finally set over the horizon a group of teenagers started gathering up, some were as young as 15. Though the leader of the group, the tallest guy with jet black hair and a stern expression was no younger than 20.

The group exchanged some information and discussed details about an unclear subject though, it was not hard to guess they were up to something sinister.

The six of them finally headed out of their hiding place when the city quieted down and there were no people or cars nearby. They walked a short distance to a friendly looking neighborehood and stopped in front of a relatively small brick house. The house was one of the oldest in the neighborehood with a small neat garden out front.

The leader of the group locked eyes with the youngest of them and silently gave him the order to move in using their agreed hand gestures. The other nodded and proceeded to go alone through the fence and into the garden silently. He had a tiny body and the flexability and quick reflexes of a cat, that gave hime the ability to soundlessly glide through another's property and manouvre his way around to the owner's dog who's usually agressive features were now relaxed in a deep slumber.

A single soft whistle rang through he night and the rest of the group, getting the signal that their biggest threat isn't going to wake anyone and ruin their plan, advanced through the fence with conciderably more noise than their youngest memeber. The group have been monitoring this house for weeks and discussed this next part. So they, knowing a weak spot in the old locks and the security system, go in through the garage. Once they're in the house all of them start acting quickly and wordlessly. Everyone had their part in this which they knew by heart.

After much rumagging around they finally get to the destination they seeked. The living room. It was hard to tell much about its appearance given the fact that it was a very dark night and their tiny flashlights didn't show much.

Now after months of planning they reached what they came for. The leader of the group seeked somee sort of important papers or documents which's importance was known only to him. Time wasn't being wasted as they headed for the drawers and found stacks of papers and some envelopes along with the owners passport and his other documents. While the leader was skimming through the papers to see if this is what they were looking for the dog outside started to bark madly. The rest of the group looked at their leader with panic in their eyes, because this was not part of their plan. The dog should have stayed asleep until the morning, yet something triggered it.

The leader grabbed the first papers he saw, along with some envelopes, clearing out the entire first drawer and ran, the others followed behind him, stomping through the house loudly.

John Watson jumped out of bed, his eyes wide awake and prepared for battle. He scanned his surrounding and listened closely to whatever disturbance that caused his dog to bark like mad and managed to glimpse through the window at about half a dozen figures running away into the dark. John sighed deafeated, as sharp as his reflexes are, he was in no state to chase after them.

Since there was no way he could go back to sleep after this, he put on his robe, grabbed his cane and slowly limped his way downstairs to evaluate the damage. Though, to his surprise the large plazma TV and his stereo were all intact and untouched and so was everything else in the house it seemed. Except for his large cabinet in the living room where one of the drawers was ripped out and cracked on the edge.

John went closer to the crime scene, careful not to touch or move anything around it. He saw that there were no papers lying around, that meant that the entire drawer had been cleared. Whoever did it broke in here with a definite purpose.

John couldn't remember for the life of him what was in that drawer, but first thing next morning when he calls the police, he'll get his answers.

Next he went outside, where his bloody old dog was still barking his head off, waking up half the neighborehood. John tied the robe around himself tighter as the cold night air chilled him unpleasantly. To anyone who wasn't john, the dog was a sworn enemy and someone to be barked and growled at constantly. Though he absolutely adored john and started jumping up and down and whinning at the sight of him.

"It's alright, Gledstone, it's alright." he murmured petting the dogs head as it calmed down. John sighed again wondering what could have set his dog off after he picked up a tiny tube or sedatives dropped nearby when a dark shadow moved away from the corner of his eye.


	2. Chapter 2

Next morning John sat on his couch staring into nothing while the few police officers finished clearing up. One of them seeing John with his slumped shoulders tried to comfort him:

"There's no reason to be upset. The damage was very little and little thieves like them get caught very easily." he said putting a hand on the old soldier's shoulder. John just hummed in agreement, not lifting his eyes from the spot he had been staring at for about an hour.

The things that the group took from the house were worthless to them. Somewhere on the other side of London the leader is cursing the dog for blowing their cover. The papers and envelopes they took were indeed worthless to them, but they meant everything to John Watson.

After Sherlock's death, John moved out of the flat as soon as he could. He wasn't one to stick around and let his memories taunt him. He intended to erase and leave behind everything that related to his best friend. Though on advice from his friends and his therapist he rewrote all of their adventures on plain paper. So that if later in his life a time comes when he'll want to remember, or perhaps even publish his stories, he'd have them ready. Later on he even deleted his blog.

John had a very hard time coping. He had so much to say, so much to thank Sherlock for. He couldn't just confess all of that to a stranger regardless of the fact that she's a professional. It's not how it works for John Watson. So as a solution, his therapist suggested he would write letters to Sherlock, put all of his thoughts and feelings in them and then seal the envelopes. It started out as an experiment but soon John started writing letters nearly every evening for about a month or so until he started to feel somewhat human again. The letters he wrote, the adventures he wrote down were the only tangable link he had to the consulting detective. Mrs. Hudson passed away last year and Lestrade quit his job and moved out. He was left all alone again, and the only things that gave him strength, made him feel sane were stolen. Every single one of them. Every last link he had was gone. To say that he was absolutely crushed would be an understatement.

John doesn't remember when he decided to go out but next thing he knew he was walking through a park. The same one he met Stamford in. He stopped to take a breather and rest his leg sitting on the plain wooden bench. It was a wonderful summers day. The sun shinning, not a cloud in the sky, the birds chirping away a lovely tune chasing one another and chirping even louder in excitement. The park was filled with people talking, laughing, having picnics and enjoying themselves. Everyone around him was so happy that they didn't bother even glancing at the sad old man who was staring at the ground. Though neither did John show any interest in the things going on around him. He heard people passing by, some sitting next to him and getting up quickly after, some sitting on the grass behind him. Yet his eyes stayed firmly fixed on the grey cement. And it's a shame they did, if he would have lifted his head and turned it around he'd have seen the familiar black curly hair that belonged to an even more familiar man who sat right behind him, back to back.


	3. Chapter 3

Had it been a miracle? a coincidense? a mistake? or someone making a cruel joke on the old soldier? John thought as he was standing outside of his house in his robe again staring at a piece of paper in his hands. It was an envelope that had come to his mail box. On a Sunday.

His tired, half-lided eyes recognized his own messy writing on the back of the envelope that said "to Sherlock". The sealing seemed untouched. The doctor was quite certain that he was dreaming, that his nightmares have returned once more. Hasn't the universe taunted him enough?

However, during the entire day he didn't see the ghost of his friend, nor did he witness his death all over again like he usually did in his dreams. No, John got dressed and ate his usual Sunday breakfast, watched the same dull telly programs and went out for a walk in the afternoon. Driven by old memories he headed in a different direction this time though. Still clutching the letter in his hand, he had made up his mind to open it to see which one of them did he posses. Maybe it will put his mind to rest.

John had been walking for some time now and his leg was aching by then and so was his arm that kept uncomfortably holding the cane. When he finally reached his destination he had to stop and let our a breath he didn't know he was holding. John had carefully avoided Baker Street, going anywhere near it or seeing it even if it's on the news. Seeing it now, the balck old door with the letter 'B' barely holding on it across the street brought back a flood of emotions and memories the soldier had stored away. His happiest, craziest, most tense and the saddest days were spent in that flat. It reminded him of everything that was good and exciting as well as horrible and terrifyng. There were days when he had felt like this was the only true home and family he ever had and some time after he avoided it like the plague.

John took a shaky breath before crossing the nearly empty street. His right arm shook with every step of his cane though it wasn't from exhaustion. He was finally there, staring at the black simple door while keeping up his posture and firm look on his face. His quivering lips gave away his cover though, revealing a terrified and broken man underneath the soldier's mask.

He contemplaited trying to knock on the door and ask someone to let him inside for a moment but his legs were glued to the ground. He had to hold on to the railing when the pain in his leg started to make him dizzy. John practically slumped down on the cold stone steps leading up to the door and relaxed his leg, feeling the tension gradually leave it. His shaking hands took out the envelope from his back pocket and tore the sealing. The letter was unfolded immediately as John's curiosity got the best of him. From the first lines and incredibly messy writing John realised this was the very first letter he had written to Sherlock. He read the first few paragraphs mumbling the words to himself as there was no one around to hear him anyway.

John smiles at his own expressed doubts about this plan "...I think the idea is a bit rubbish. Writing letters to a dead man makes me feel even more mental than I already am. but this is the only thing I was willing to try so here goes..." After a few more paragraphs describing how his life has been going and what had happened to the others John finally gets to the part where he talks about Sherlock. "I said most of what I wanted to say to you when I visited your grave with Mrs. Hudson a few months back, but I doubt you heard me. You can't exactly hear me now either even though I know I have to believe that you do. If you did, you'd probably make a remark that it's a useless thing to do and mumble 'sentiment' under your breath in a mocking tone, pretending you don't understand what it is. When you and I both know that you do." John's voice gets a bit louder and clearer as he reads. After this particular sentence he hears another voice join in, a deep barritone voice, much quieter than his own as if reading the letter with him. "Everyone else saw you as a robot, without emotions, a psychopath-" John stops reading, his heart was beating loudly in his chest. He was certain he had heard another voice along his own, but it was impossible. John shook his head 'it was probably the wind or my imagination or something logicaly explainable' and continued reading in a shyer voice "but i stand firm on what i said, you are _were _the most human, human being i've ever known." John hears the voice again and stops once more, though the other voice keeps going "I saw the way you talked to Mrs. Hudson, how you cared for her like a son cares for his mother, I saw your admiration for Irene and I noticed the way you sometimes looked at me..."

John was positively shaking right now, he had gone completely mental hadn't he? Every instinct in his body was screaming to look behind where the voice was coming from but he was frozen in place, the deep familiar voice had him hypnotised. In the end he couldn't bare it, he realised he didn't care if he was going mad, he just wanted Sherlock back again. So he turned around and a smile streched over his face involunteraly as he laid his eyes on the tall lean figure leaning against the side of the open door. Sherlock stared somewhere down the road intently while his lips kept moving and the words that were written in John's letter kept flowing out fluently, he knew them by heart.

John continued staring and not uttering a word while Sherlock was saying the last paragraph of the letter, still not looking in John's direction. "..with love, John" he finished and still not taking his eyes off of the road said "it was my favorite one, I'm sorry I couldn't save the others". Sherlock finally looked down at the bewildered face of doctor Watson and smiled in triumph. John scrambled to get a hold of the railings and stand up properly.

**A/N and then i woke up. if you want me to continue, let me know**


End file.
